All the
opinions expressed in this article are the opinions of Dr. Seshadri Kumar alone
and should not be construed to mean the opinions of any other person or
organization, unless explicitly stated otherwise in the article.

This is
purely a work of fiction. This work of fiction has been inspired by real-life
events, and uses events and quotes from real-life events for the setting of the
story, but those events have only been used as an anchor to give this story a
context. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
There is no direct or implied allegation in this work of any crimes committed
by any real people. This is an essay meant to be assessed purely on its
literary merit and has been written purely to showcase the author’s skills in
literary fiction. The entire scenario depicted here is simply a “what if”
portrayal of how power may be abused. The author makes no claims that any of
the events mentioned herein actually occurred in real life.

*********************************

Sanjiv continued looking at the television, his face set,
his eyes red, his fists clenched, his knuckles white. They were showing his
mother's dead body round the clock, interspersed with shots of crowds yelling
"khoon ka badla khoon se lengey." (“We will avenge blood by blood.”)

His childhood friend, the big Bollywood star, Vijay Verma,
was also there on TV, saying the same thing. How long we have known each other,
thought Sanjiv. A good man, he thought. A friend in need.

His mother, the Prime Minister, had been assassinated by
Sikh assailants that morning. The party had quickly made him the new Prime
Minister, but right now he was too numb to think about that. His biggest anchor
in life, his mother, was gone, never to come back.

He couldn't go on. He switched off the TV. It was 10 pm. His
wife Tanya came to the living room and said, "It's late. You look terrible.
It’s been a long, rough day. You need some rest." He waved her off and
said, "I know. I’ll sleep in a little while. You go to bed."

He opened his cabinet and pulled out a bottle of scotch. He
took out a glass and poured out a large double. No soda, no water, no ice. He
took a long sip and let the whisky burn his throat. I don't want anything to
mask the pain today, he thought to himself.

He stared into the opposite wall that was blank except for a
photograph of his grandfather with his mother. Thoughts of the meeting at the
house earlier came back to him in a flood, and he closed his eyes as he winced
again at the pain within...

Earlier
That Evening…

His home had been full of friends, and while he himself
could not speak much, his friends and colleagues of his slain mother did all
the talking.

"Those Sikh bastards should all be burned alive!"
thundered Jatin. Many made sympathetic noises and nodded their heads grimly.

"We should pick them out one by one, and teach them a
lesson they will never forget!" yelled Vimal, his eyes bloodshot, his face
twisted with rage.

"We'll bury the bastards alive!" shouted Ajay. “They
took your mom, we'll take their mothers. And sisters. And daughters. We'll make
them feel pain like they never have felt before."

Sanjiv said nothing. His face was stony, devoid of any
emotion. He looked at Jatin, then Vimal, then Ajay, and then continued to look
down on the ground.

"Shut up, all of you," growled Kishan, who was
sprawled out on the armchair opposite Sanjiv. Kishan was built like an ox, and
was the de-facto king of the capital city. When he spoke, everyone listened. He
had a habit of wearing dark goggles even indoors and at night, which added to
his intimidation quotient.

"Can't you see he is upset? Is this the time for us to
bother him like this by yelling like this? Don't you fellows know how to behave
in a house of mourning? Leave him alone."

He then got up, giving the signal for the others to follow
suit, and put his arm around Sanjiv, and said, "She was like a mother to
us too. We sons are not ungrateful. Don't worry about a thing. You have a lot
of grieving to do. Focus on mom's funeral. We will take care of
everything."

Sanjiv did not say anything, but nodded silently.

***

Sanjiv refilled his drink and turned on the TV again. They
were broadcasting his mother's last speech: "If I were to die tomorrow,
every drop of my blood will invigorate the nation." He hastily switched
off the TV again, unable to bear the pain.

As the neat drink scorched his throat again, he thought of a
conversation with his mom a few months ago...

***

"But mom, are you sure?"

"Bloody hell, yeah I'm sure. I made that pipsqueak who
he is. And he dares to thumb his nose at me? I'll teach him a lesson he won't
forget."

"But they are dangerous people, mom!"

"And you think your mother is a sheep? Son, politics is
a business in which a woman has to become as tough as a man!"

"But what if something goes wrong?"

"Be a man, Sanjiv!!!" yelled his mother, her eyes
furious. Sanjiv was stunned. He had never seen his mother this angry. Her face
was white with rage, her lips quivering, her hair disheveled because of how
rapidly she had whirled around to face him.

Seeing the stunned look on his face, she composed herself,
and told him, this time in a gentle voice, "I have talked to Gen. Krishna
and Gen. Shridhar. There is no risk. Don't worry."

***

The alcohol burned again in his throat as he thought, "maybe
she should have worried."

He thought for a long time in the silence. Then he finally
said to himself, "Yes, she was right. This is the time to be a man."

He looked at his watch. It was 2 am. "What must be done
has to be done," he thought to himself.

He would not make the call to Kishan.

Let the boys take care of things.

He finally went to bed.

Four
Days Later…

Sanjiv got out of the bathroom and got dressed.

Since he had those few glasses of neat scotch a few days ago,
the burning had not left his throat. He drank some water to make himself feel
better.

He had almost finished dressing when the doorbell rang. It
was Kishan.

"It's done." said Kishan quietly.

"Yes?" inquired Sanjiv.

"We took care of them."

The burning in the throat suddenly stopped.

"Go on."

"Jatin took care of Mangolpuri and Sultanpuri; I took
care of Shakarpur; Vimal took care of Rakab Ganj. Everyone contributed. No
place was left untouched. In Trilokpuri Ajay..."

Sanjiv interrupted him. "That's enough. We will talk
later. Not now."

Kishan paused, thought for a minute, and then said, slowly
and carefully, "It had to be done, you realize, don’t
you, Sanjiv?"